Page 1 of The CEO

Prologue

SIX MONTHS EARLIER . . .

The forest preserve sits silent around me—a small, welcome sanctuary just outside Chicago’s chaos. When I donated this land to Cook County several years ago, it wasn’t out of the generosity of my philanthropic heart. It was calculated and strategic, like every single decision I make when it comes to my public image.

Now this place is my refuge away from that world, and sometimes even serves as a place to conduct business that pertains to a different world. One where secrecy and loyalty are required above all else. One where a single mistake can end with you begging on your hands and knees at my feet.

I sit motionless in my car that’s parked deep in the shadows, just on the edge of the lot where the tree line meets the asphalt. My fingers run absentmindedly over the worn photograph in my hands, a habit I’ve developed over the last eight years.

“Eight years,” I mumble, recalling the day I took the photo like it was yesterday. The color has dulled over time, yet her face remains just as clear as that day.

Evelina Thorne.

Her face is partially obscured by a long strand of her hair caught in the wind, but it doesn’t completely obscure her features, which are twisted with grief. Her fingers are knotted together, a crumpled tissue in her hands.

And just out of frame: the matching coffins of her parents.

Rain pelts my face as I stand among the distant headstones, camera in hand, lens focused on her face. She doesn’t know I’m here, doesn’t know I exist. Her dress is soaked through, clinging to her frame, but she refuses the umbrella a mourner tries to offer.

The rain mixing with her tears feels right to her. I understand that need for physical pain that matches emotional suffering.

Lightning cracks overhead as she looks up, eyes scanning the cemetery as if sensing my presence. For one heart-stopping moment, our eyes almost meet across the distance, and I duck behind a mausoleum, breath caught in my throat, heart hammering against my ribs. Not yet. She’s not ready to see me. Not yet.

Iclose my eyes, mentally doing the math.

Eight years, two months, and twelve days.

That’s how long it’s been since Eve’s parents’ lives were stolen from her by my mentor. And that’s how long it’s been since I made the only decision I’ve ever felt contrite over. I didn’t just make sure my mentor walked away after drunkenly ending two lives; I staged another body behind the wheel, making it look like someone had stolen his car and crashed into the Thornes.

It’s the only decision that has ever truly haunted me.

I pinch my brows together as the memory assaults me with an unwelcome, vivid clarity.

“Sir? Sir, look at me.” I softly pat Victor Messini’s face.

Rain lashes against me as I lean inside his Bentley, its crumpled hood smashed into a small compact car. He’s slumped halfway over the console, blood starting to trickle down from his temple.

“Damien?” He slurs my name so thickly, I’m not even confident that’s what he said. “Damien, what are you doing here?” This time there’s no mistake. He looks around his car in confusion, the smell of Scotch rolling off him like he took a bath in it.

“Sir, you called me. You had an accident. We need to get you out of here now.”

As if it all comes rushing back to him, he snaps his head up and squints through his windshield.

“They’re already dead,” he mumbles, struggling to hoist himself out of the car.

“How do you know? Did you check?”

He swats away my help, righting himself.

“No, but if they aren’t, make sure they are.”

I don’t argue. Instead, I walk over to the other car, trying to mentally prepare myself for what I might see inside. Thankfully, this is a back road that doesn’t seem to get a lot of traffic, but I take a quick look around just in case. Then I lean down.

“Well?” Victor’s voice is gruff, and he’s swaying slightly next to his car.

The passenger window is completely shattered, revealing two people inside.

“They’re dead,” I tell him.

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